Changing of the Guards
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: The head of UNCLE is dead and Napoleon contemplates the meaning of life.


He sat on the bench, feeling very much like he'd lost his best friend. This was silly really, for he'd only known Mr. Allison as his boss. They'd never met socially, just had a nodding acquaintance outside of Mr. Allison's office. Yet it had been Mr. Allison who had had a major impact on Napoleon Solo. And now he was gone.

It was very restful in this part of the cemetery, just the whisper of the trees and the singing of the birds. Everyone else had left hours earlier, eager to turn their backs on one of the more frightening aspects of humanity; that death, no matter what, couldn't be denied or hidden from. In the end, it was what awaited everyone, the great equalizer.

Napoleon had made his peace with death a long time ago, hearing the wail of gunfire over his head as he crouched in a muddy ditch, praying that the thing touching his leg was a stick and not a dead buddy's arm. He'd seen so much death by the time he returned from Korea, it had taken much of the fear away.

Then UNCLE had stepped in, showed him a new way of life, but also a new face to Death, a face that looked very much like his and awaited him around corners, in alleys, behind trees. Being a Section Two agent meant an early death for a good many of them. And if Death was going to take him early, Napoleon was determined that it would not be without a fight or with regret. During the days, he surrounded himself with guns, bombs, criminals and killers. At night, he lived each moment as fully as he could, surrounding himself with laughter, music, good food, fine drink, and women. Men like him really didn't have any friends. He was alone, he was Solo.

The day was starting to drift into twilight when there was movement beside him. It took him a moment to recognize the man, his new partner, still squeaky new and struggling to assimilate into American culture. They'd only been assigned each other two days earlier, one of Waverly's first tasks as the new Number One. Napoleon didn't know exactly how he felt about it.

"You knew Mr. Allison vell?" The Russian accent still peeked out around the corners of Kuryakin's British taught English.

"As well as anyone knows anyone in our business." Napoleon leaned back on the bench and studied the young man. Young man, he laughed to himself. Kuryakin was just a few months younger than Napoleon, yet he looked so young that it was hard to think of him as a seasoned UNCLE agent.

"This is typical of an American funeral? Forgive me, but it seems so… so…"

Napoleon watched Kuryakin struggle for a word and offered, "Poorly attended?"

Kuryakin rubbed his fingers together, as if he was flipping though an invisible dictionary. "How do you say, um… _cтепенный._"

"Repeat it again slowly." Napoleon's Russian was a bit rusty, but he suspected it would be getting a regular work out from now on.

"_Степенный._"

"Sedate? You mean, quiet?"

"_Да,_ that's it." Illya slapped his hands together. "Forgive me, but this seems so… quiet."

Napoleon nodded. The turnout had been pathetic to his way of thinking. There were a couple of other agents there, a few members of Mr. Allison's family, less than ten in all, and that made Napoleon's heart ache. This man had a hand in saving the world a thousand times over and yet not even a dozen people had time enough to spare him this last courtesy. Yet, truth be told, probably fewer would show up at his.

People looked at Napoleon and thought he was so rich with friends and lovers. They never saw the nights he sat up alone, wishing he had someone to just simply talk with, openly, intelligently, and honestly. He couldn't do that with his coworkers. He'd just never really connected with any of them. He couldn't do that with his dates. While some of them were his mental equal, his was a life of mystery and lies. Not even his parents knew what he did for a living and that was fine by him.

Kuryakin was sitting forward, leaning on his knees, just looking around at the cemetery as dusk approached.

"This is the first time I've been in an American cemetery. Are they all like this?"

"No, some are grander, others much more humble. In the old days, families used to have their own, but not so much now. What are funerals like back in the Soviet Union?"

"It's one of the few opportunities we have to practice any sort of religious ceremony. The older people, they cherish the opportunity if not the act itself. Because of that, funerals are very rich in tradition. There are many mourners, for often entire towns will turn out, and the ceremony will go on for days. If anyone invites you to a traditional Russian funeral, wear comfortable shoes."

Napoleon found himself chuckling at this. "I will, thank you."

They sat quietly for a time, then Illya asked softly, "You knew Mr. Allison well?"

"He recruited me into UNCLE, made sure I didn't kill myself or anyone else early on. He had faith in me, even when I didn't. Guess he liked what he saw."

"A perceptive man then. Was he well liked among his peers?"

"I suppose. I never met any of the other Section Ones. Do you know anything about Waverly?"

"I have not heard very much. People are… reluctant to speak freely around me; afraid that I am not what I am."

"Ah, a wolf in sheep's clothing."

"What?" The blond looked at his somber black suit, the same one he wore every day. "I am wearing no wool products."

"It's a saying; it means to pretend to be one thing when in reality you are something very different."

"Exactly." Kuryakin leaned back. "I vish… wish people would see me as I am, just a man, nothing more."

"They will, it's just for a long time you've been the enemy."

"For a longer time, we were allies, fighting shoulder to shoulder, as you and I do now. It's how it should be."

"That's pretty insightful for a…" Napoleon paused for a breath and Illya jumped in.

"Communist?"

"Young man."

"I'm not **that** young." Kuryakin laughed and Napoleon realized it was the first time he had heard the agent do that. And Illya was right, he wasn't that young and he had very old eyes. Eyes like Napoleon's that had seen too much death and were so weary of pretense.

Twilight was on them now, painting the trees and shrubs a uniform black and still he sat. And Kuryakin sat with him. The air was growing chilly and Napoleon repressed a shiver. Yet his partner looked as if it was the middle of summer and a heat wave to boot. The wind caught and played with the longer strands of his hair, tossing the blond hair around as if it was a beach ball.

"Aren't you cold?" he asked finally.

"It wouldn't do me any good." Illya opened his jacket and shrugged. "This is what I have, so I may as well be comfortable with it."

"You really are Russian, aren't you?"

"Right down to my State issued socks and underwear, I'm afraid."

Napoleon laughed at that. "I forgot to ask, is there trouble back at headquarters?" He stretched his arms out along the back of the bench. The birds had grown quiet and the crickets were starting.

"No."

"Someone looking for me?"

"Not that I am aware of." Illya crossed one ankle over his knee and looked up into the starless sky.

"Then why are you here?"

"Because this is where you are." Illya turned his head away. Listening for a moment, his profile cut sharp against the darkening sky. Apparently he decided it was only the sidewalk lamp coming on and he looked back with a slight smile.

Napoleon felt a little ball of warmth in the pit of his stomach as he suddenly realized that Illya sat there because it was where he wanted to be, not because it was where he had to be. And Napoleon smiled when he realized he had stopped thinking of his partner as the Russian, as the Soviet agent or even as Kuryakin. He was Illya, his partner, his… friend. "What do you say we blow this joint?"

"We're blowing something up?" Even in the pale light provided by the nearby light, Napoleon could see a look of excitement on the man's face.

"Yes, my friend" Napoleon answered with a grin. "Let's show 'em how it's done." He stood and offered Illya a hand up. The hand that grasped his was strong, warm, and reassuring. Being Solo wasn't so bad, not as long as you had a friend to be solo with.


End file.
